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So there I was, out in the woods behind the garage harvesting mushrooms in preparation to sit down and write the next Thad Gunter series when the phone rings.

Now the fact that I even had the phone on me was a miracle.  Normally I’m not wearing pants when it’s time for the harvest.  But Mila said she thought she might have seen some poison ivy last time she was back there.  The last thing you want to do is accidentally drag Big Jim and the Twins through a patch of poison ivy while having to answer nature’s call.  You can only rent Folgers; you can’t buy it, so it’s going to happen sooner or later.

So I had pants on, and my phone in the pocket, and the darn thing went off.  Now I wouldn’t normally stop to answer the phone during the mushroom harvest.  It’s too easy to lose your place and leave some of the good ones behind once you hang up and refocus on the task at hand.  But the negotiations to sell the blog content to a consortium of investors / publishers has ramped up and I feel like I have to answer every call that comes in.  I didn’t recognize the number.  It could have been the Big Offer we’ve been looking for.

“Cap’n?  Is that you?” the voice on the other end of the line said.

The midwest tone of his voice made me think that maybe it was Tim Walz calling from Minnesota.

“Yeah,” I said.  “It’s me.  Is that you, Tim?”

There was an awkward silence on the other end.  “No.  It’s me.  DB.  DB Cooper,” he said.  Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather, which could have been dangerous if I was indeed standing anywhere near poison ivy.

“How’d you get my number, DB?” I asked him.  Of course, as soon as the words came out of my mouth I knew the question was silly.  “Never mind,” I said.

“I’m right down the block.”  He continued, “Thought I’d come pick you up and we’d take a B-double-E-double-R-U-N over to the Lucky Lady!  You up for it?”

Well, when you’ve got a bushel basket full of freshly harvested Fort Stockton mushrooms at your feet, going for a beer is kind of like crawling out of bed with Kate Upton so you could drive across town to go through the Salad Wagon at K-Bob’s with Kathy Bates.  But I darn sure didn’t want to insult DB, and had no idea when I’d get a chance to meet him again.

“Sure,” I said.  “Give me ten minutes to clean up and I’ll meet you in the garage next to the Fairlane 500.”

Next thing I know my noggin is pinned back against the headrest and Fort Stockton scenery is flying past us in a blur that I haven’t experienced since last year’s mushroom harvest.  I note that DB’s wearing his Captain My Captain cap.  Luckily it doesn’t have the same effect on me that it does on Mrs. Cooper.

“So this is Fort Stockton!” he yells at me over the blaring engine under the hood of the Corvette.  “Not what I expected.”

“Me neither, but here we are,” I shouted back.

Faster than I’ve ever made it to the Lucky Lady before in the Fairlane 500, we’re pulling in and looking for a parking spot.  There’s a bigger than usual crowd.  I figured that must be fate; I’d get to introduce him to people he’s probably only ready about.  And vice-versa.

As luck would have it, Lucinda and Delgado were at the bar throwing back a Lone Star Longneck or three.  DB seemed tickled to be able to finally meet her.  The jealousy in Delgado’s eyes when he saw her eying DB’s cap was palpable, I’m not going to lie.  Lucinda couldn’t take her eyes off DB the whole time we stood there.  Thankfully, Rusty Hammer walked in and broke the spell.  He and DB talked Weed Eaters and whether cottonseed meal or corn gluten meal was the better lawn additive.  I remained silent on the matter, knowing the Folgers coffee grounds were like the nectar of the gods as far as mushrooms go.

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Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sister Thelma walk into the bar.  I get ready to introduce her and DB.  She takes one look at him wearing his CMC cap, turns bright red and does a 180 and heads back to the front door muttering something about her vows.  Rex Hall comes in the front door as Sister Thelma heads towards the parking lot.  Comes straight over to DB and gives him a big Texas welcome.  “Any friend of the Captain’s is a friend of mine!” Rex says.

In no time, Rex finds out that DB has spent a lot of time in Lincoln, Nebraska.  Rex Hall has people in Lincoln, and spent summers there as a boy back in the day.  “Talk about a small world,” Hank said from behind the bar.  Then he went back to drying beer mugs with a tattered rag that looked like it was dripping in listeria.  

Rex and DB start comparing notes about Lincoln and things they remembered from their times there as youth.

“Cool Crest Mini-Golf on 48th Street was the go-to for dates,” Rex said.  DB nodded along and looked off into space remembering things he apparently didn’t want to comment on in front of a crowd.

“Fresh grilled corn on the cob and strawberries from the garden for dessert made for the best summer meals anyone could ever ask for,” Rex noted.  The two of them talked about growing up in the heartland.  They made it sound like a unique experience, but I suppose that’s the case wherever you grow up.

Then Rex mentioned something about the Nebraska State Capitol Building and they both started laughing.  “You mean the Penis on the Plains?” DB chuckled and then ordered another bucket of beers.

It seems that the good folks of the Cornhusker state have a sense of humor.  They built their capital building about as phallic looking as could be.  And then, up on top, they erected a statue called ‘The Sower’, spilling his seed all over the fruited plains below.  Hank almost dropped a beer mug.  Lucinda batted her eyes as DB explained the symbolism.  Delgado clinched his jaw.  Rex laughed along as DB entertained the gathering crowd.  He had them in the palm of his hand.  Kind of like the statue atop the capitol.

Before the night was over DB was spinning Mrs. Drury, Assistant Manager of the Piggly Wiggly,  around the dance floor.  Chad said he thought he saw her slipping her number under DB’s cap, but nobody could verify that and I darn sure don’t want to get any rumors started.

What I do know is that we shut the place down.  And when it was time to settle up, DB covered everyone’s tab that had been there that night.  Damned if he didn’t pay the bill in wet, dirty,  somewhat discolored bills.  Looked like they were 50 years old.

Out in the ‘Vette and heading home, I told DB I was glad he drove all the way to Fort Stockton to look me up.  It had been a treat.

“I’ve got a confession to make,” DB said as he looked over at me.  “I didn’t drive all the way down here.  I had the Corvette shipped to Marfa.  That drive would be a beating in this heat.  I jumped out of the ass-end of a plane over Alpine and called an Uber to take me to the car.”  

The smile on his face was priceless.

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